


Flashbulb

by dumbkili



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Family Bonding, Memory Loss/Recovery, Past Violence, Post Take Back The Falls, Spoilers for Weirdmageddon, a bit of a character study, bad memories, hoo boy i just cant give stan a good time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-18
Updated: 2016-02-18
Packaged: 2018-05-21 09:46:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6047032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dumbkili/pseuds/dumbkili
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <span class="small">Flashbulb memories are a unique kind of memory, heavily relying on elements of personal importance, context, emotional response, and surprise felt towards the event. Flashbulb memories are less likely to be forgotten after they are formed, and serve as a permanent record of the times we have been scared, hurt, surprised, or overjoyed throughout our lives. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>  </p>
<p>  <span class="small"> (a story told in snapshots or: how Stan Pines got his life and mind back)</span></p>
            </blockquote>





	Flashbulb

His first memory is of a girl- he’s not sure of her age, but he’d pin it anywhere between eleven and thirteen- rushing up to him in a calm forest clearing. Her face is streaked with dirt and something that might be blood. His shirt feels like it doesn’t fit right. 

 

The girl is talking, but the words don’t make sense. They don’t string together to form any kind of coherent sentence, at least not that he can recognize. He asks her who she is, vaguely forming plans of finding her parents (little girls shouldn’t just be wandering around forests, right?), but that only upsets her. Eventually, a boy of about the same age drags her away (he has to physically  _ yank _ her, his knuckles white), and an old man with six fingers hugs him. 

 

Okay, so as far as first memories go, that one’s a little weird. He’s aware of that. It’s part of this amnesia thing he’s got. The six-fingered guy who’d called him  _ hero _ had explained it all as they’d walked through the woods that first day. Although, for that six-fingered man, it was closer to a  _ last _ day. A last day of some terrifying, long ordeal. 

 

“You’re my brother,” he’d said, a hint of desperation along the edge of his voice. “You’re- we’re twins. We grew up together.” His weird hands twisted around themselves for a moment. “My name is Stanford. You’re Stanley.”

 

“Yeesh,” he’d replied, rubbing his head. “You mean I look like you? And we practically have the same name?” There had been a nod of confirmation. “Well, I’ll say this much: Our parents must not have been much for the creative junk.”

 

The six-fingered guy (Stanford, he’s gotta remember to call him Stanford) had frowned and muttered something that sounded like “Our parents weren’t much for anything, period.”

 

He had pointedly let that one go by without comment or question. It had been his first day alive, technically, and he wasn’t about to ruin it with whatever personal biz this Stanford guy had going on. He’d looked around. Having no memories was... weird. He knew basic language- that was a tree, that was a rock, that was a child- but he had no connections to them. No ties, no idea what any of those things were supposed to mean on a personal level.

 

He hadn’t expected the thing with the scrapbook to help at all. But it had. A few turns of the pages and suddenly the thing that he had only been able to identify as a  _ pig _ turned into a  _ Waddles _ , and the guy in the corner became  _ Soos _ . But they had been barely more than the basic words were. The only things attached to these new concepts were faint shadows of emotions. Annoyance. Fondness. Nothing more detailed than that. Still, he could see the hope in all of their eyes, in the faces of the kids and the man who called himself his brother, hell, even in the damn pig. They didn’t just want him to remember- they  _ needed _ him to.

 

So he had pretended he did. And they believed him.

 

The little girl (she’d called herself Mabel) had since completely devoted herself to the task of helping him recover, only taking breaks to eat or sleep when Stanford (“Call me Ford, please.”) forced her to. It’s what she’s doing now, actually, and he jerks himself out of his rather limited trip down memory lane to listen to her.

 

“And this was the time we spent the whole day out on the lake fishing!” she says excitedly. She says everything excitedly. “You made me ‘n Dipper hats and we almost got arrested. It was really fun!” She looks up at him with those big brown eyes. “Do you remember, Grunkle Stan?”

 

“Of course I do, pumpkin,” he replies (he’s lying). “Sun kept gettin’ in my eyes and my socks were wet.” Give them just enough detail to make it seem like you’re telling the truth, but not so much that you risk being wrong. He has perfected this technique, although he couldn’t say if he did so three days or three decades ago. He watches her face carefully, making sure she doesn’t suspect anything. He’s only known this girl for a day, but already he feels incredibly protective of her. He doesn’t want to see her get hurt by  _ anyone _ , least of all himself. 

 

She seems satisfied with his response, and moves on to the next page in her scrapbook.

 

△▲△

 

Sometimes, when he says he remembers something, he isn’t lying. He gets flashes every few hours, bits and pieces of stuff he’s sure happened to him at some point, but that he can’t fully grasp. Some of them seem relatively normal ( _ skinned my knee when I was five, got dumped for the first time in 8th grade _ ) but there are some that are just… bizarre.

 

“Hey, uh, Ford?” he asks hesitantly one morning. Ford looks up from whatever he’s scribbling down on a ragged piece of Mabel’s pink notebook paper. 

 

“Yes, Stanley?”

 

He sighs, suddenly embarrassed. “Ugh, this is a dumb question but… there weren’t ever…  _ zombies _ around here, were there?”

 

“Um, not that you’d have-”

 

“There were,” says Dipper, entering the kitchen suddenly and opening the fridge. “But don’t worry, Grunkle Stan, that was, like, three weeks ago. It’s fine now. And Mabel already yelled at me for summoning them, so you don’t have to.” He looks over guiltily at Ford, whose expression is quickly morphing from shock to horror to disapproval. 

 

“Dipper,” he begins, and the boy’s shoulders sink a little bit. “You could have gotten seriously hurt. I can’t even fathom what you were thinking-”

 

“Grunkle Stan saved us though!” Dipper interrupts. “He punched the zombies and then we killed them with karaoke.” He blushes slightly. “I promise it was cooler than that sounded.”

 

Ford looks torn for a second between further admonishing Dipper and asking Stan more questions. He settles on the latter. Tapping his pen against his chin thoughtfully, he scrutinizes Stan like he’s under a microscope. “Interesting that you remembered that one all on your own.”

 

Stan laughs nervously. “What d’ya mean?” What he’s really asking is:  _ Have you figured it out?  _ Have they figured out he’s a scam? A fraud? That whoever “Stanley Pines” was, whatever kind of guy they all knew and loved, is gone? That he is dead and buried in a collapsed mind a million dimensions from here? He hopes that they haven’t.

 

“It’s just… strange that a negative, fearful memory would present itself organically to you, but you need help recalling the less… stressful ones,” says Ford, oblivious to his brother’s inner turmoil. “It’s fascinating, really. Probably has something to do with the disparity between your physical neurons and your metaphysical consciousness… If I’d dabbled more in Psychology instead of Biology back in college, maybe I’d know what it means.”

 

Stan (it feels weird to call himself that, even in his head) raises an eyebrow at him, but doesn’t say anything, too worried about what might come out of his big dumb mouth. He privately thinks it’s worrisome though, because although Ford doesn’t know it, the  _ only  _ memories Stan has are the bad ones. 

 

△▲△

 

He keeps a list of them in the back of a random book he pulled off a shelf in his bedroom. He hasn’t even really taken a serious look at the title. It doesn’t matter. He looks over the list that afternoon ( _ Lost my first ten boxing matches, car stolen in ‘72, was in the hospital- twice!, had a mullet _ ) and adds  _ zombies _ at the bottom of the page. It’s a weird list, but then again, he’s kind of a weird guy. There’s a quiet knock on his bedroom door and he looks up to see Mabel poking her head inside. 

 

“...Grunkle Stan?”

 

He quickly snaps the book shut and tosses it on his nightstand. “Hey kiddo. What’s up?”

 

She shuffles her feet nervously on the scuffed wood floor, hiding something behind her back. “Um, well, it’s… me and Dipper’s birthday… or it was a couple days ago but, ya know, we were kind busy… Our party is the day after tomorrow though! And I wanted to give you this invitation!” She whips a purple sparkly piece of paper from behind herself and hands it to him. It’s got lots of stickers and hearts and a cute little doodle of the twins jumping out of a birthday cake with the number 13 written on it. It is absolutely the most adorable thing he has ever seen, but he has a rep to maintain, so he just grunts a little bit as he reads it.

 

“Sweetie, you don’t have to invite me t’ your party,” he begins, and the tiniest hint of a frown flits across Mabel’s face.  _ Aw, what the hell _ . “...Because I’m going either way!” he finishes, suddenly leaping forward to pick her up and spin her around. She laughs in delight and he pretends the sound is familiar. 

 

△▲△

 

He and Ford leave the kids with Soos and Wendy and head into town to buy presents the next day. The streets seem emptier than they should be, given what he knows about Gravity Falls’ tourism industry (and the faintest trace of memory in the back of his brain), but there’s still a few families that don’t belong milling around the main square and the mall. He catches a few stray conversations. 

 

“How on earth did this fire hydrant get into the middle of the street?” asks a short woman with a toddler drooling on her shoulder. “It’s a safety hazard!”

 

“Never mind all that,” says Sheriff Blubs, his sunglasses impassive.

 

“Why is this car all crumpled up like this? Has there been an accident?” says a concerned father of four, leaning out the side of his dinged-up RV. 

 

“Never mind all that,” replies Lazy Susan, tossing a black bag leaking something red into the dumpster. It’s probably just cherry pie filling, but it’s enough to make the man go pale and roll his window back up quickly. 

 

“This town’s gonna be investigated by the FBI or somethin’ with how suspicious you’re all acting,” Stan informs Ford seriously. He’s not 100% sure, but he thinks he has a pretty good grasp of what the FBI investigates people for. 

 

Ford laughs quietly. “Town’s already  _ been _ investigated, Lee. Not by the FBI, though.” He looks off into the middle distance, contemplating. “I wonder if I could trick the FBI, too. That would be a challenge.”

 

“Don’t piss off the FBI, man,” Stan says, grinning. “That’s my job.”

 

Ford raises an eyebrow at him as they enter the practically sub-zero air-conditioned mall. “You got into trouble with the FBI? And you remember it?”

 

Stan shrugs. “Bits and pieces come back to me.” ( _ ten years cut down to two by ratting out everyone else in the ring and boy did they have some opinions about that later _ ). He doesn’t think Ford wants to hear all the (literally) gorey details, so he contents himself with sticking his hands into his pockets and looking around the mall. 

 

Unlike the outside of the town, which was quickly patched up to give the appearance of normalcy, the insides of most buildings are still in abject disrepair. The upper balcony of the mall is partially shattered, and the Edgy on Purpose store still has the remains of someone’s campfire in it. It adds to the aesthetic. He winces internally. The details of what’s being called ‘Weirdmageddon’ are still lost to him, and looking at the destruction it left behind he’s honestly kind of glad.

 

They’re in an electronics store when it happens. Ford bends down and picks up a battered old VHS that looks like the last time someone touched it was before electricity had even been discovered. He holds it up to the light so Stan can see.  _ Star Trek _ . 

 

“I haven’t thought about this show in years,” says Ford quietly. Fondly. “But now it’s all coming back. We used to run home after school to catch it on TV, remember?” He’s smiling. “Spock was my favorite.”

 

Stan has no idea what Star Trek is. Neither of the kids have mentioned it to him. It has never come up. But Ford is obviously waiting for a response, and he thinks Stan’s been remembering things, and there’s no way to spin it. He coughs to buy some time and then gestures vaguely to the box. 

 

“Yeah, that one was good.” Ford taps a man in a yellow shirt questioningly and Stan nods. “Yeah.”

 

“Hm. Kirk was always too impulsive for me,” Ford says, but he doesn’t directly challenge the claim, so that’s alright. However, after they’ve bought Mabel a box set of some brightly colored cartoon and exited the store, Ford mutters, “I know when you’re lying to me, Stanley.”

 

Stan almost drops his bag. “Uh… pardon?”

 

Ford rolls his eyes. “Back in the store. You were lying, Stan, and I don’t know why. Were you embarrassed that you couldn’t remember? There’s nothing embarrassing about it. It’s not your fault.” He’s practically spitting out the words, but suddenly his tone softens. “No, it’s not your fault. It’s mine.” He folds his arms tight against his body and watches the ground like it can tell him all the secrets of the universe.

 

They don’t speak for the rest of the trip.

 

△▲△

 

That evening is the first time he gets a flash that doesn’t leave him feeling slightly sick. It happens suddenly, between one blink and the next. A flash of light, and he’s somewhere else. He’s younger than he is in most memories, and sunlight dances on waves in the distance. The colors are softer, and everything seems dreamlike and foggy. He’s talking to a little boy, sunburned, glasses slightly slipping off his face in the heat. 

 

“One of these days, you and me are gonna sail away from this dumb town,” he’s saying. The other boy looks close to tears for some reason. “We'll hunt for treasure, get all the girls, and be an unstoppable team of adventurers!”

 

“You really mean it?” asks the other boy, and Stan notices that he has six fingers on each hand. He draws in air to reply, but the memory shuts off just as quickly as it had started. 

 

He blinks wildly as the Shack’s run-down and partially demolished kitchen reforms around him. Mabel pauses in her frantic construction of party decorations for a second.

 

“Grunkle Stan? Are you okay?” she asks, concerned. “You’re really pale.” He waves her away with one hand, nearly stumbling as he makes his way upstairs to add a new bullet to his list. He wonders if he should start a separate one, though. The pattern’s been broken. In the end, he settles for writing  _ we were going to go on adventures _ at the bottom of the page in different colored pen.

 

It’s confusing, but it gives him hope. Whoever Stan Pines was- whoever he’s got to remember how to be- it’s comforting to know that his life wasn’t all staring at the inside of prison cells and swinging baseball bats at people’s faces.

 

△▲△

 

The kids’ birthday party goes great. Practically everyone in town shows up. Somehow, a cake has been baked, and somehow, all the presents have been wrapped on time. Mabel and Dipper are both over the moon, and Stan lets himself have some fun as well. After all, how many times is he gonna get to go to the joint thirteenth birthday party of the twins who saved the world (or so he’s been told)?

 

It’s only when Ford asks to speak with him that he starts to feel nervous. Part of him wonders if this is it, Ford’s done with him, he’ll be asked to leave and that will be that, and he wonders where he got that idea from. 

 

“...I want to investigate it, but I think I might be too old to go it alone.” There’s an underlying question in Ford’s tone, and just the slightest scrap of nervousness, too. Comprehension dawns suddenly, and Stan is immeasurably grateful that this time, he knows what Ford’s talking about.

 

“Are you sayin' you need someone to help you sail around the world in the adventure of a lifetime?” he asks cautiously, in case he’s gotten it wrong and Ford will laugh at him for the leap he made. 

 

“I don't just want  _ someone _ to come with me, Stanley, I want it to be  _ you _ .” All of a sudden there’s a photograph being thrust out to him, of a scene he recognizes. There’s the boy he was talking to in his memory, arm in arm with another, scruffier looking kid. It’s the same beach, probably even the same summer. 

 

It’s easier than breathing to accept Ford’s offer. Besides, it’s not like he’s all too attached to the Mystery Shack, anyway. The only true memories he has in there are bad ( _ zombies, Gideon, something triangular that glows and won’t tell me what it is or how it works _ ) and that Soos kid seems more than eager to take it over. 

 

△▲△

 

The twins leaving sets a record as the worst new memory of his life.

 

△▲△

 

He and Ford are eating cheeseburgers in a cheap diner by the seaside a month later when suddenly he’s somewhere completely different. There’s blue light all around him, and a smell like ozone and burning sugar. And something- someone- is moving away from him, moving up and outwards, deeper into the blue light. 

 

“Stanley!” 

 

He doesn’t know if the voice is in the memory or real life until there’s a solid, six-fingered hand on his wrist. He’s back in the diner and his burger’s gone cold. Ford’s eyes are wide, lacking the wall of composure he usually keeps in place at all times.

 

“Stanley, what the hell just happened?”

 

“I- There was- You were…” He can’t find the words. With an almost audible click, Ford’s shields slide back down and he releases Stan’s wrist.

 

“The portal. You remembered it.” It’s not a question, just a flat statement of fact. One might think Ford was talking about something as simple and boring as  _ 2 + 2 = 4 _ were it not for his six fingers anxiously tapping on the tabletop. Stan nods slowly.

 

“I think so. Um.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“When  _ was _ that?” Stan asks. “I couldn’t tell how old we were.”

 

Ford hesitates for a long time before answering, staring down at his plate. “1982,” he finally says, voice carefully level. “It was thirty years before we saw each other again.”

 

Stan chokes on the sip of water he’d been taking. “Thirty  _ years?! _ You’re telling me I only just got you back?!”

 

Ford looks sadder than Stan has ever seen him, barring the first time he saw him after Weirdmageddon. “Yes. It took a while for you to get the portal back up and running again. I’m honestly amazed that you managed to do it- I have twelve Ph.D’s and it still took me years to even grasp the  _ concept _ of it.” He pauses for a second, then pushes onward. “I’m amazed, but I’m also  _ grateful _ , Lee. You asked me for a thank-you once and I only grudgingly gave it. That was wrong. What you did… it deserves more sincerity than I gave you at the time. Thank you, Stanley.”

 

Stan snaps his mouth shut, aware he’s gaping. “Uh. Well. I’d say you’re welcome but-”  _ I don’t remember doing any of the things you’re saying I did _ .

 

“You don’t have to,” interrupts Ford. “We should go.” He holds up one hand for the check and that’s that.

 

△▲△

 

They’re two months at sea before Stan remembers Bill Cipher. He wakes Ford up with the loudest string of expletives that the Arctic Circle has ever been audience to. 

 

“Motherfucking  _ shit _ -”

 

“Yes.”

 

“In my fucking  _ head _ -”

 

“He does that to everyone.”

 

“Fucker!”

 

“I don’t think he does  _ that _ . I never asked.”

 

△▲△

 

They stumble back into town a year after they left it, and are immediately attacked by two brown-haired whirlwinds before they’re even fully inside the Shack. Everyone is talking at once and too loudly to pick out the individual words, so Stan focuses on what his eyes are telling him. They’ve never failed him before, unless he’s forgotten to update his glasses prescription. 

 

Both of the kids have grown, but Mabel is still just slightly taller. She’s gotten her braces off, from what he can tell. Dipper’s shoulders are getting broader, but his voice is still squeaky. They both look incredibly happy to see both of their grunkles again, and the feeling goes both ways.

 

The four of them convince Soos and Melody to close the Shack for the day and they all pile into the living room, talking and laughing and gasping at this or that monster story while in the background bad movies blare. Eventually, the sun dips low in the sky, and the older twins say goodbye. They don’t live here anymore, and that’s okay.

 

Besides, McGuckett has  _ plenty _ of room.

 

△▲△

 

“Stanley, can I ask you a question?” Ford says as they walk up the hill to Fidds’ place.

 

“May I. Grammar, Stanford,” grins Stan. “Oh man, I’ve been waiting like six months to use that one!” He sobers up quickly though. “Sorry, what did you want?”

 

Ford looks embarrassed for a second, but he’s never been one to back away once he’s started something. “I was wondering if you’ve… that is, if… the memories of Bill’s…”

 

“You mean, do I remember Bill dying.” Stan’s mouth is a flat line. He wishes he was lying as he says “Yeah, I do.” He scuffs his toes through the dirt as he walks, leaving behind two long dotted lines beside Ford’s neat footprints. “You wanna hear it?”

 

“Not if you’re uncomfortable with telling me- I mean, I don’t know if you would be, but…” Ford stumbles over his words uncharacteristically, and Stan sighs. It’s been a year, but Ford is still awkward around him sometimes, unsure what the brother he estranged and angered for most of his life is going to be set off by. Stan, with all his memory problems, is at least free of that conversational roadblock. It’s the only reason they’ve ever gotten anything done.

 

“I’m not uncomfortable. But it’s not a fun story.” That’s all the warning Ford gets before Stan launches into his retelling, describing the details that came to him in a flash months ago. Ford, to his credit, doesn’t interrupt or ask questions, only sucks in a sharp breath when the blue fire shows up. Stan glances at him out of the corner of his eye. “I remember that when he burned he smelled like cinnamon toast. And vodka.” He scrunches up his nose in distaste. “Not the best combination.”

 

There is silence for a second before Ford says, “And then…?”

 

“And then nothing,” snaps Stan. “Sorry, that was harsh, but. There’s  _ nothing _ after that. I was gone, he was gone, and suddenly I was in the middle of the woods with no idea what I even looked like. You might not believe me when I say this, but that’s not even the worst morning I’ve ever had.”

 

“No, I believe you,” Ford assures him. “Don’t worry.”

 

“Some real messed up shit happened to us, Stanford,” says Stan. “I dunno where it started, but I’m pretty glad it stopped.”

  
Ford hooks his arm around Stan’s shoulders as they walk, the lights of the town twinkling behind them, and the single, energy-efficient lightbulb Mcguckett has on in his house ahead. “Me too, Lee. Me too.”

**Author's Note:**

> tfw no gf
> 
> sidenote im only in year one of ib psychology so if u dont agree with my definition of flashbulb memories please dont call the APA,, i am trying my best
> 
> (im ciphereye on tumblr)


End file.
